Aware of my rising anger, I let a long, deliberate beat pass before I said, “Is that a complaint, or what?”
“No,” she answered, too quickly, “it’s not a complaint. And it’s not meant as a slur on your masculinity, either. It’s just that—” She suddenly broke off as her voice caught. Was she going to cry? I’d only seen her cry once, when her favorite aunt died.
Her father was the cause of her sudden, irrational pique. If she didn’t know it, I did. Her father, and his millions and his brand-new wife—he was the one responsible. Trying to tinker with Ann’s life, he’d upset her. She was angry with him. And I was the target of opportunity.
I knew it, but I never should have said it:
“If I were you, Ann, I’d do my own thinking about your life. I’d make my own decisions. I like your father. He’s a hell of a guy—one of a kind. But he’s a different person from you. What works for him won’t work for you. Or for me, either. So when you—”
“You’re trying to—” She broke off, blinking against sudden tears. Seeing her eyes shine in the darkened car, I realized that I was shaking my head sharply, suddenly angry. Tears for a lost aunt were one thing. Tears used as a weapon were something else.
“You’re trying to blame my father for your own problems,” she said hotly. “All he was doing was…was showing interest in you. He likes you. I could tell that he likes you. But instead of accepting that—instead of simply liking him in return—you’ve got to start double-thinking, looking at it from the underside. It—it’s typical of what you do, all the time.”
“Maybe it’s an occupational hazard,” I said. “Looking at things from the underside, I mean. Take tonight, for instance. I was a half hour late because I had to investigate a very messy, very smelly murder, down in the Tenderloin. Maybe that’s the real problem, Ann. Maybe there’s just no way to go from the Tenderloin to the Stanford Court.” Hearing myself say it, I realized that my voice had sunk to an icy, dangerous note. And suddenly the past rushed back to smother me. The last time I’d spoken with that same cold, measured malice, I’d been speaking to my wife. The next day, she’d gone to see her lawyer.
I wanted to keep myself from going on. But I was helpless to stop what came next:
“Maybe the real problem is that you’re tired of having a cop around. Is that it?” As I said it, I stared directly into her eyes, bullying her. It’s a squad room cliché that a cop’s most efficient weapon is a long, cold stare.
It was the first time I’d turned the weapon against her.
I saw her blink, heard her sigh, felt her falter. The next moment, I knew, could bring us together, lovers repentant. I knew that I shouldn’t say any more. I knew that I should wait for her to speak.
And I knew that, most of all, I should give her some sign that I was sorry. A look would have been enough. Or a gesture.
But I couldn’t do it—couldn’t send the signal that I sensed she needed. Something inside me had been hit too hard. Some almost-forgotten scar tissue had been ripped away, revealing a wound cut too deeply to ever heal.
So, instead, I said goodnight, and opened the car door, and walked down the areaway to my apartment. I didn’t look back.
Three
I’D ONCE HEARD A pundit say that television was a refuge for the lonely. As I walked into my apartment and automatically switched on the set, sound off, I remembered the nameless pundit’s remark. Standing in the empty living room, lit only by a single lamp that I kept on a timer, I felt loneliness strike with sudden, numbing force. It was a quick, cruel blow, and it caught me squarely in the solar plexus.
I flung my topcoat on the sofa, and tossed my jacket beside it. I’d bought a fifteen-dollar silk tie, especially for dinner at the Stanford Court. I unknotted the tie, pulled it free and stood for a moment with it dangling irresolutely from my fingers. Then, savagely, I crumpled the tie into a tight silken ball and hurled it into the fireplace.
Exactly a week ago, Ann and I had cooked steaks in the fireplace. Afterwards, we’d made love in front of the fire. In the soft light from the dying flames, her body had never excited me more.
Thinking bitterly of the symbolism so plain in the image of the tie lying dust-covered and twisted in the ashes of last week’s fire, I realized that my gaze had wandered aimlessly to the silent TV, my newest symbol of emptiness and defeat. The eleven o’clock news program was almost over; the TV’s integral clock read 11:22.
In fifteen minutes, Ann would be home.
I would call her—talk to her—tell her I was sorry. Tomorrow was Saturday, and I had the weekend off. On Sunday, I’d arranged to take Ann and Billy on a tour of Alcatraz. In the evening, Ann’s oldest son, Dan, would join us for dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf.
It would be a family-style day, and with Ann’s father gone, tonight’s wounds would heal. The thought began to ease the empty ache of my loneliness.
I’d been standing in the center of my living room, mindlessly watching the images flickering across the TV screen. The camera was panning spasmodically from a surging, out-of-control crowd to kaleidoscopic close-ups of anguished young faces, to three black-and-white patrol cars arriving at a parking lot, red lights flashing. As each car braked to a jolting stop, four patrolmen hit the pavement, running.
Even before the camera lingered on a huge “Cow Palace” sign, I’d guessed what was happening. There’d been a rock concert at the Cow Palace. A rock star had failed to make a scheduled appearance, or a hot new group had refused to play one last encore. A disturbance had started, igniting into a riot. It was a familiar, predictable scenario. The police response was equally predictable. At the Hall of Justice, downtown, the riot squad was assembling, running to muster like firemen answering the bell. They would be getting into their flack jackets, their thigh protectors, their helmets with the plastic visors. For this job, they’d be issued three-foot batons, weighted at the business end.
I glanced again at the clock. Ten minutes more, and Ann might be home.
I had just picked up my jacket and topcoat from the sofa and was taking them to the closet when the phone rang.
Had she gotten home so soon? No, it wasn’t possible. She must have stopped at an outdoor phone booth, or a tavern. As I lifted the phone, I frowned at the thought. Ann should know better than to use outdoor phone booths at night. And stopping at a tavern could be almost as bad.
“Hello?” I tried to make it sound warm—eager—loving.
“Lieutenant Hastings?”
As I bit back an obscenity, I recognized the background clatter on the other end of the line. Police Communications was calling.
“What is it?”
“I’ve got Lieutenant Friedman for you, Lieutenant. Can you hold?”
“I can hold,” I answered shortly. “But not for long.”
“Yessir. Just one moment.” The line clicked dead, and for a full thirty seconds I heard nothing but static. Waiting, I took the phone over to the fireplace, knelt on the hearth and used one hand to fish out my new silk tie from the ashes. Tomorrow, I would take it to the cleaners.
Suddenly Friedman’s voice grated hard in my ear. “Frank?”
“It’s eleven-thirty,” I said stolidly, “and I’m half undressed for bed.”
“Then I hope you’re alone,” he answered promptly, “because I’ve got a real production number going down here, for God’s sake. I need help. Have you been watching the news?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m at the Cow Palace. And let me tell you, it’s a mess.”
“That part of the news I watched. So it’s a riot. What’s it got to do with us?”
“Ever heard of Rebecca Carlton?”
“The rock singer?”
“Right,” Friedman answered heavily. “The rock singer. She’s dead. Shot. And it’s causing lots of very, very big problems.”
“Have you got anyone in custody?”
“If I had anyone in custody,” he answered acidly, “I wouldn’t be calling you. Right?”
I sighed. “Right.”
Savagely, the sergeant punched a siren switch, then clamped his hand down on the horn ring. In front of our car, caught in the headlight glare, contorted faces did a manic dance, defying us. We were inching our way through a thousand wildly writhing figures, taunting us with screaming obscenities and stiffened middle fingers.
“These goddamn sonofabitching hippies,” the sergeant said, raising his voice against the wail of the siren. “Had my way, I’d line them up against a wall, I swear to God.”
“It’s not much further, is it?”
“Christ almighty, we’re only making about a foot a minute. Want me to fire a couple over their heads, Lieutenant?”
As he said it, I saw a police helicopter suddenly swoop down out of the night sky to hover directly over the entrance to the Cow Palace. Momentarily its searchlight beam fell on an enormous sign reading “Rebecca Carlton and Pure Power.” I cut the siren, reached for the car’s microphone and called Communications.
“This is Lieutenant Hastings,” I said. “We’ve got a helicopter over the Cow Palace. It’s number Charlie-seven-two-three-Juliet. Patch me through to him, please. Quick.”
Thirty seconds later, I heard a static-sizzled voice acknowledge my call. The voice was shouting over the high, whining whirl of helicopter blades.
“This is Lieutenant Frank Hastings,” I said into the microphone. “We’re in black-and-white car”—I glanced at the dashboard plaque—“we’re in car Alpha 243, trying to make the rear entrance to the Cow Palace. Have you got us in sight?”
“Yessir, we have you in sight.”
“Then come over here, and give us a hand. See if you can move this crowd.”
“Yessir.”
I saw the helicopter suddenly dip, then swing in a wide, screaming circle, coming up on us from behind. As it drew closer, the helicopter dropped down until it was hovering barely ten feet above the milling mob, its blades churning up a whirlwind of dust and debris. Now it was directly overhead, lashing us with the sound of rolling thunder gone wild. Slowly, the copter moved to a position just ahead of our car, and dropped another few feet. The figures caught in our headlights began flailing their arms against the whirlwind. Now they were beginning to scatter, falling away from each other.
“All right,” I yelled to the sergeant. “Go. Bump a few, if you have to do it. Gently.”
“Damn right,” he yelled, throwing me a quick look of leering pleasure.
I felt the car move forward, felt a thud. From the radio came a call I couldn’t hear, even with the volume at full blast. Then, from the sky, I saw some small round shapes falling—one, two, three. Looking up at the helicopter, I saw its open side door sliding shut. It dipped, veered, recovered. Suddenly it was flying back toward the building. At the same moment, a yellow cloud erupted before us.
Tear gas. They’d dropped tear gas canisters. They’d tried to warn us over the radio.
“Jesus Christ.” I twisted in the seat, checking our windows for cracks. “Go,” I shouted above the shuddering, whirling rush of sound left behind by the copter. “Go.”
One last bump, and we broke free. Moments later, we were pulling to a stop beside a police barricade.
I thanked the sergeant, got out of the patrol car and stood for a moment looking back on the scene we’d just left behind. It looked like something out of Dante’s Inferno. Clouds of yellow gas hung above the crowd like sulphurous vapors hovering over the writhing hosts of hell. A searchlight beam moved toward the cloud, adding another bizarre touch: the world premiere of some strange, unearthly new Hollywood production.
Turning back toward the building, I came face to face with another uniformed sergeant. It was Neal Cassiday, from Mission station. Years ago, we’d gone through the Academy together.
“Hello, Neal. How’ve you been?”
“Fine, Frank. You?”
Wryly, I thought about my lover’s quarrel with Ann. Cassiday was the father of four boys. His oldest son was just beginning to walk a beat. Neal had been married for thirty years.
“No complaints,” I answered. “What’s happening here, anyhow?”
Cassiday’s broad, beefy face broke into a cheerful grin. “Damned if I know. This is like the war, for God’s sake. All you can see is what’s dropping around your foxhole. A deputy chief told me to secure this entrance, and pass the big shots through.” He grinned again. “That’s you, I guess, isn’t it? A big shot?”
Answering his smile, I shrugged. “If you say so, Neal. Where’s the body?”
“Come on. I’ll show you.”
I followed him through a sliding metal fire door and down a long, bare, windowless corridor. Its sidewalls and ceiling were rough-cast concrete, painted a pale institutional green. I’d been in this same stark, squared-off tunnel years ago, when the Republican party had held its national convention at the Cow Palace. I’d been in uniform then, detailed to guard Nelson Rockefeller, who’d tried for the nomination and lost. After Goldwater’s acceptance speech, Rockefeller had come down this tunnel to his waiting limousine. He’d been accompanied by his wife, his son, his police bodyguard and a mere handful of sober-faced supporters. I’d held the car door for him, and as he thanked me, politely, I saw tears in his eyes.
Except for a single patrolman lounging with his back propped against the green concrete wall, the corridor was deserted. Our footsteps echoed and re-echoed as we walked, each of us nodding once to the patrolman as we passed. The patrolman was a stranger to me. Wearing a modified handlebar mustache and hair trimmed as long as departmental regulations allowed, the young patrolman nodded amiably in return. He didn’t bother to push himself away from the wall.
“The new breed,” Cassiday muttered heavily, resigned.
I smiled, then asked, “How’s your family?”
“Fine. Just fine. Peter, you know, graduated. He’s walking a beat down in the Tenderloin.”
“I know. How’s he doing?”
“So far, so good. How’re your kids?”
“Claudia is just starting college, back in Michigan. She’ll be eighteen next month. Darrell just turned fifteen. He was out here to visit me, a few months ago.”
“I know. I saw him at the pistol range. He looks like you, Frank. The spitting image.”
Caught by surprise at the sudden flush of pleasure I felt, I nodded. “That’s what everyone says.”
I’d always liked Cassiday. He was a man who cared what happened to his friends.
At the end of the corridor, Cassiday pointed to the left, down a narrower hallway. Its sidewalls were wood-paneled, decorated with huge photomurals of San Francisco, taken from the air. At the end of the hallway, smiling amiably at me and lifting a hand in a gesture of awkward greeting, I saw the large, lumpy figure of Canelli, my driver.
“There you go, Frank.” Cassiday clapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Good luck. I better get back to my foxhole.”
“Thanks. Give my best to Peter, will you?”
“Sure will, Frank. See you.” He turned back the way he’d come, walking briskly down the pale-green corridor. As I went toward Canelli, I took my shield case from my pocket and pinned my badge on the lapel of my corduroy sports jacket.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” Canelli said affably. “Jeeze, this sure is something. I’m glad to see you.” He was standing with his back to a crowd-control door, one with no handle or lock on the outside. As he spoke, he rapped sharply on the door, which immediately swung open.
Stepping through the doorway with Canelli following close behind, I found myself facing the controlled confusion typical of backstage theater. A ganglia of serpentine power cables covered the floor. Lighting scaffolds towered fifty feet high. Three large motor homes and a half dozen smaller vehicles were arranged in a rough semicircle facing the back of a stage raised ten feet above the floor.
But the scene was strangely frozen. Sounds were muted; movements were hushed and hesitant. Costumed performers sat, or stood, or walked slowly among the cables. Som
e of them carried musical instruments, some were empty-handed. A group of blue-jeaned stagehands stood apart, clustered at the base of one of the light towers. A half dozen big, tough-looking black men wearing red nylon windbreakers with “Security” stitched across their backs mingled aimlessly with the crowd, deprived of their purpose by dozens of policemen, in and out of uniform. Most of the uniformed policemen stood guard at a rope barricade that divided the Cow Palace amphitheater from the backstage area. The division was defined by multicolored fabric falls and skims hanging from a track suspended from the huge domed ceiling that arched a hundred feet above the floor. Some of the fabric falls were opaque, some semitransparent. Through their gauzy folds I could see the huge oval of the Cow Palace arena. The building could seat seventy-five thousand, rising tier on tier from floor level to the network of enormous curving girders that supported the dome of the ceiling.
From beyond the flimsy fabric falls and skims I heard a low, rhythmic pulsing, primitive enough to have come from the veldt. I recognized that sound. It was the voice of the mob, indecisively muttering. Any moment, though, the sound could erupt into a howl of sudden rage—followed by mayhem.
Beyond the footlights, a beast was growling.
“Over there, Lieutenant.” Canelli gestured to a large aluminum motor home. As he spoke, I heard a woman’s voice blaring through the massive speakers that hung fifteen feet from the amphitheater’s floor, aimed out toward the crowd:
“Here he is. He’s just come over from Oakland—just this minute. So let’s have quiet, please.”
But, when she paused, the beast still muttered and rumbled.
She tried again. “Here he is. He’ll be with us in a second, now. Just as soon as it’s quiet out there. He’s come to talk to you—David Behr, everyone. So let’s, please, hold it down. Let’s listen to David, everyone. What’d you say? How about it, now? He’s right here, backstage. He’s waiting. You can believe it. This is Pam telling you. Pam Cornelison. You know me. You know I don’t jive you. And I’m telling you that David’s here, waiting for a little quiet, so he can talk to you about what’s happened. So let’s have it quiet, now. For David.”
Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 2
